The Adventures of Constance Contraire
by Spark Writer
Summary: A fourteen year old Constance Contraire is ten years older and wiser than when we last saw her.  Join this fierce girl as she battles to defeat the enemy and searches for truth.  She will fight until there is nothing left.  People LOVE this one!
1. Taken

**Disclaimer: I do not own MBS.**

**Author's note: Hey everyone! I plan for this to be a BOOK soley dedicated to Constance. I will be posting new chapters soon, so keep on the lookout. Thank you!**

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><p>It was a blustery day in Stonetown.<p>

All was well, or so it seemed. In Stonetown square, cars sped past the tree-lined sidewalks, pedestrians gabbled on cell phones, and street vendors called to passers-by. Beside a spreading poplar tree, sat a single park bench, its bottle green paint peeling with age. And it was on this park bench, that a girl sat alone, immersed in a newspaper so recent one could smell the damp ink. To anyone observing her, she seemed rather unassuming, with a black pea coat, and red skirt peeking from beneath her newspaper. As for her face, it was buried behind an advertisement ( Woolworth's Back to School Sale!) so it was impossible to make out her features. In fact, the girl would have remained absorbed in her paper, if a taxi hadn't come screeching to a halt before her, rudely splattering her legs with mud. Angrily setting her paper aside, the girl glowered darkly at the taxi driver. He gave her an apologetic smile, then sped off again.

"Idiot," she muttered spiritedly.

She gave the newspaper a disgusted look, then discarded of it in a nearby trashcan. It was a complete waste of space to fill all those pages with advertisements, pitiful feature stories, and appalling headlines. She was convinced that the Stonetown Times was losing its touch. Not that it had been very good to begin with. The wind tugging at her pale blond hair, she set off down the street, dodging countless people (all of whom were taller than herself).

It was difficult for Constance. She had grown a great deal in the time since she and her three friends had first met, a good ten years ago, but she remained quite small for her age of fourteen years. Her skin was pale and milky, her cheeks and nose were bright pops of cherry red on her face, and her eyes were sparkling blue, set deep. Besides all that, she was only five feet tall, no more, no less. And it was because of this, that Constance Contraire often went unnoticed altogether. She was nothing short of extraordinary, however. She had two great gifts. One, was being psychic. The other, was an uncanny ability to spot patterns and puzzles, not to mention solving them quickly. Constance had a third gift, too, but it wasn't as significant as the other two. She was a skilled poet. Her desk drawers were filled with piles of notebooks, loose paper and chocolate wrappers, all printed with poetry. Mr. Benedict, Constance's adopted father, felt that Constance would make a brilliant poet.

This thought made Constance smile and, feeling expansive, she waved at a street vendor, not caring how she looked. Continuing down the congested sidewalk, she glanced to her left, and saw Stonetown Bay, looking for all the world like a miniature city of its own. Quite suddenly, Constance was crossing the street, heading for the beach. The intoxicating smell of salt spray and dry grass drew her there. She strode along a great dock, crusted with barnacles, and wandered down to the beach, a mere fingernail of gray pebbles. She stood there, quite alone, until a gull—soaring above her—gave a raucous cry, and she gave a start and looked around. It was not lost on her that the wind was picking up, growing louder and more insistent. Then there was the water, becoming choppier, each wave swallowing the last one with a ferocious gulp. Constance gazed out at the gray clouds, so close to the horizon. A storm is brewing, she thought, and grinned. There was nothing Constance loved more than a good rainstorm. In fact, she loved all kinds of weather, as long as it was extreme and exciting. Having long since grown out of her trademark red raincoat, Number Two had made her another, but it was a disturbing flesh color, as Number Two staunchly believed that one's clothing should match one's skin. Constance didn't agree. Only her love for Number Two kept Constance from breaking into rude poetry when presented with a new article of clothing.

Even as she recalled this amusing memory, fat raindrops began to dance on Constance's cheeks and forehead, tickling her mercilessly. The boat anchored in the harbor rocked and swayed, making Constance feel a bit nauseous at the sight of them. Soon, she knew, the beach would be pounded with waves, and her small footprints would be erased. Picking up a stick and flinging into the whispering water, she swung round and trudged up the beach.

Unfortunately, the wind chose this moment to sweep into a howling tempest; roaring in Constance's ears, sending leaves flying, and snatching umbrellas from stunned pedestrians. Constance lowered her head to the wind and plowed on, relieved when she made it to the main street. The raindrops were coming more quickly now, and people were shielding their heads with umbrellas, cast-off newspapers, and in one woman's case, a shopping bag. Constance threw herself into the crush of people, beginning to wish Rhonda hadn't let her take a walk all on her own. There was an unmistakable atmosphere of alarm, no doubt brought on by the sudden storm.

"Excuse me," she growled through gritted teeth, squeezing between two men, and giggling when the wind took the liberty of snatching one of the men's toupee of his head. Without allowing herself a second to laugh, Constance tore the crowd, blinking cold raindrops from her eyes and cursing her own stupidity.

"Why didn't I bring an umbrella?" she thought, seriously annoyed.

CRASH! Constance's head snapped around and she saw an elderly woman and a broad shouldered police officer, both clutching their heads and moaning.

"Watch it!" snarled a beefy crossing guard (Constance had nearly crashed into him). Constance stayed long enough to give the man a rude look, then was off, Blueback Road in sight. Fighting fatigue and a fiery burning in her lungs, Constance stopped briefly, hands on her knees. All around her, street lamps were flickering on, warding off the early nightfall. Glancing up, she saw that the sky was a mass of threatening storm clouds, emitting a faint glow from the setting sun. Taking a deep breath, she stood straight and had barely put one foot on the pavement, when the streetlights went out altogether. Instantly, the city was thrown into noisy darkness. People were yelling, bumping into her, crying out. Constance was determined to remain calm. Making use of the little daylight that was left, she crept along, squinting and searching for the house. As all of the neighborhood lights were out, it was incredibly difficult to distinguish them. But fortunately, Constance spotted the large, homey shape of Mr. Benedict's house, flashlights flickering from within.

Instead of making a dash for the house, Constance went utterly still. Someone was following her. That someone was stealthy; they had hardly made a sound, but she _knew _they were there. Fighting the urge to scream, Constance turned around very slowly, her skin prickling.

"Hello?"

No answer. But then something swift and blacker than the black all around, came charging at Constance. The person grabbed her roughly, and clasped a huge hand over her mouth. Constance bit her attacker, who merely gave her a well-placed punch in the stomach. Feeling as though she was about to vomit, Constance swung her legs wildly, desperate to kick whomever it was that had seized her.

"I advise you to keep still," said a voice somewhere above her right shoulder. It was an awful voice, deep and threateningly quiet. Constance's response was to kick even more wildly, at least until a hand shot out and twisted her arm so cruelly that she screamed.

"That's better." Constance was swung into some sort of vehicle; she could smell the gasoline, and a door slammed shut behind her. Scrunching her eyes shut, she opened her mouth and screamed shrilly. It was no good, already the vehicle was moving, its wheels rolling to life. In the suffocating darkness, she screamed again.

"Let me GO!"

Muffled laughter from the front of the car. Constance drew back her leg, and kicked the wall of the car. Clutching her toe, she heard more laughter.

"The little dear doesn't know when to stop."

Constance did stop, just then, recognizing a voice too awful to think of. McCracken, the most brutal Ten Man of all. Constance had no idea why she had been attacked and seized, nor how the Ten Men had escaped from jail.

"You're cruel!" she screamed, her own voice grating in her ears. "Where's your humanity? _Where_?"

The Ten Men laughed, but not loudly enough to mask a dolphin squeal peal of mirth.

It was Mr. Curtain.

Reeling, Constance sat down, hard. Little balls of light popped in her eyes like fireworks, and she felt dizzy. In the dark, she clutched her globe pendant, rolling it over and over in her trembling fingers. _I will get through this, _she told herself. _I will survive just like I survived adversity all the other times. Breathe, Constance, breathe. _She would not cry, it was simply out of the question. Her inborn sense of anger at the weakness of Mr. Curtain and his blind followers saved her. "I'm not the one who needs to be afraid," she muttered fiercely. "And I'm not going to be."

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><p><strong>That, ladies and gentlemen, was the first installement in "The Adventures of Constance Contraire." I won't beg you to review, but it would be nice to know what you did and didn't like.<strong>

**Thanks again,**

**-Spark Writer-**


	2. In Control

**Chapter Two**

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><p>In a haze of nausea, Constance saw him; the reptilian green eyes, the cold, unflinching gaze, the bulbous nose. Mr. Curtain gazed down upon her with utter contempt.<p>

"Get up."

Constance heard him as though from the opposite end of a watery tunnel. His words were warped and odd.

"_Stand, _you obstinate child." Mr. Curtain seized her upper arm, and yanked her to her feet. She looked around. They were in some sort of room, all white, with no windows. Everything had a clinical look to it, cold and removed. In an instant, Mr. Curtain was dragging her across the room with surprising strength. She was too weak to fight him; she simply slid across the white tiles soundlessly.

Mr. Curtain tossed Constance into a hard, unyielding chair, and squinted at her, calculating something. Then, he leaned so close that she could see the bloodshot veins in his eyes.

"The Whisperer has returned." He spoke in a voice so joyful, he almost sang.

Constance meant to reply scathingly, but her brain simply wouldn't work.

"You're supposed to be in prison," she said stupidly.

"Ah," said Mr. Curtain. He smiled. "But as you may now realize, Constance, there was a flaw in the plan."

Constance met his gaze coolly. "You're wrong," she said quietly. Mr. Curtain recoiled, amused.

"Wrong, child? I don't think so. For here we sit, me being free and you—well, under my care," he said delicately. "Yes, the tables have turned," he concluded with frank satisfaction. Constance glared so furiously at Mr. Curtain, one would expect him to wither on the spot. Instead, he offered her a calm smile.

"A child's anger accomplishes nothing, my dear."

"Cut the small talk, will you?" Constance sat ramrod straight in her chair. "I have questions, and I want them answered. _Now_."

Mr. Curtain smirked. "By all means, ask away." He sat back in his own chair, folded his arms, and sighed comfortably. "Begin."

Constance leaned forward slightly, and without beating around the bush, asked, "Why am I here?"

Mr. Curtain cast her an appraising glance. "With the Whisperer's return, I need psychic, perceptive minds like yours to transmit the last of the messages. You see, when I last transmitted messages, I had almost finished. Were it not for meddlesome Benedict and you children, I would have succeeded. I am quite aware of your gifts, Constance. I plan to use them at my discretion."

Constance was beyond furious. "And how is it that the Whisperer just happened to make a comeback?"

Mr. Curtain smiled broadly. "Ah, yes. I have a great many associates in countries around the world, far surpassing the numbers of Ten Men I have recruited. These associates worked steadily on a second, backup model of my invention, the Whisperer, and kept it safe from the government's prying eyes."

"But you escaped! Care to explain that?"

He cocked his head. "I could have escaped whenever I was so inclined. The key, was to wait for a time that would benefit me, and undoubtedly fit with my seamless plan, one that had percolated in the depths of my brilliant mind for quite some time."

He chuckled. "Excellent, isn't it?"

Constance focused on Mr. Curtain, hoping desperately that her mental abilities would allow her to gain temporary control over him. He frowned. "Are you attempting to…_control_ me?"

Constance remained mute.

"Did you really expect that to work?" He smirked carelessly at her. "Really, you've got some learning to do."

Constance shot him an angry glare.

"Now, Miss Contraire, I think it is time you stop asking questions, and start answering them. It is true, is it not, that you have exceptional mental capabilities?"

Constance folded her arms tightly across her chest, a barricade of hatred. "I disabled your stupid Whisperer once," she began. "Now you want another go at failure?"

Mr. Curtain's eyes flickered, and he breathed heavily through his nose, looking like a winded rhinoceros.

"Silence!" he bellowed. "I will not tolerate your attitude. It's time you gave me some respect!"

"It's time you earned it," said Constance.

Furious, Mr. Curtain rose from his chair, and called out. "Crawlings! Come take Miss Contraire away!"

A moment later, Crawlings peered around the doorframe, his lone eyebrow wriggling manically.

"Take the child to her room," Mr. Curtain commanded.

"Yes, sir." Crawlings took Constance firmly by the shoulder, and steered her from the room. Together, they strode along a barren hallway, lined with closed doors.

"Where are we?" Constance demanded. Her shoulder was now aching.

"You needn't fuss with the details, chicky," smirked Crawlings. He fondled his handkerchief lovingly.

Withdrawing a ring of keys from his pocket, Crawlings unlocked one door, and pushed Constance inside. "Have a nice nap, bunny," he said smugly. Then he closed the door.

Fuming, Constance absorbed her surroundings. This room, too, was clinically white, and had no windows. The only light came from a florescent one above. The room was devoid of furniture, save for a moth eaten blanket. Constance glared darkly at the blanket, as though it had done her some great personal wrong. Sitting heavily on the floor, Constance tried to remember how she had come to this place. She couldn't. Somewhere along the lines, she must have passed out, and somehow come to be in this nondescript building. It was maddening.

Constance closed her eyes, and strained to think of anything that would be a tip-off to Mr. Benedict. Nothing but the empty white rooms came to mind. She was certain he knew what had happened to her—but _where _she was…well, that was a different story.

Never had Constance so needed her friends. Never had she been so alone.

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><p><strong>I'm working on where to go from here... if you have any thoughts, feel free to let me know!<strong>

**-Spark Writer-**


	3. The Society Convenes

"I had so hoped this wouldn't happen," Mr. Benedict was saying. "Yes, in the back of my unconscious mind, I did take it to be a possibility, but a highly unlikely one at that. This is extremely upsetting!"

The people gathered in his study looked miserable themselves. Number Two had puffy, red eyes, Rhonda had a profoundly sad expression on her face, and Milligan rotated between fury and anxiety. Not to mention Reynie, Kate and Sticky, standing in a cluster, each of them grimacing and frowning.

"We have to locate Constance," Milligan began, his ocean blue eyes dark with worry. "She mustn't stay missing for long."

"When we were fourteen," Kate added, "we got into loads of trouble, but we were still able to take care of ourselves."

Milligan looked as though he begged to differ, but held his tongue.

"But Constance," Kate continued, "I just don't know…all alone and everything."

The room fell silent. Mr. Benedict closed his eyes and removed his glasses, rubbing his forehead wearily. "She is an exceptional child, and I have no doubt in her abilities. But sadly, I do not trust my brother. I fear he will go too far."

Reynie, fighting his usual urge to pace, glanced at Sticky and gave his friend a kind look. Sticky had turned a sickly sort of gray color, and was fidgeting. Though Reynie was nearly twenty-three, his coping skills had remained greatly the same as when he was eleven, and he knew when to calm Sticky.

"Are you quite certain Constance is with Mr. Curtain?" questioned Rhonda.

"Quite," said Mr. Benedict sadly. "She's sent me messages."

"With her mind?" asked Reynie eagerly.

Mr. Benedict nodded, and held up a hand as Reynie opened his mouth to speak.

"She cannot tell me of her whereabouts. Unfortunately, Constance has always transmitted pictures more easily than words. Wherever she is, it seems she can't send a mental photograph of her location. For instance, perhaps she is blind-folded."

"Blind-folded?" Sticky shivered.

Milligan looked grim. "Moocho and I will begin searching for the child on foot."

Mr. Benedict nodded and gently placed his spectacles back on the bridge of his lumpy nose.

"Be careful," he warned. "This has become something bigger than any of us ever imagined."

"It's become war," said Reynie, then added, "We're going to help, too, in any way we can."

Kate nodded emphatically. "Absolutely. We'll find Connie girl if it's the last thing we do."

Sticky winced. "It might be," he muttered darkly. "But I don't really care," he added fiercely. "I'll be there."

Mr. Benedict gave the remaining three young people a long, sad look.

"You are honorable, extraordinary people," he said. "I would trust you with my life."

Kate's lip quivered, and Sticky squeezed her hand.

"Thank you, sir," said Reynie. He turned to his two friends. "We have a lot of work to do, so we might as well begin."

Sticky and Kate straightened resolutely, and followed Reynie from the study.

"Where on earth could she be?" whispered Sticky. "They could have taken Constance anywhere."

Reynie strode down the stairs two at a time. "I don't know, but we've got to figure it out, and soon."

They hurried into Constance's empty bedroom, and sat in a dejected row on the bed.

"Okay," Reynie began, "Mr. Benedict thinks Constance might be blind-folded." He looked to his friends, and they nodded. "But maybe," he murmured, "maybe, she's somewhere really nondescript. Impossible to describe, I mean."

Sticky frowned. "You mean Constance could be in some empty chamber somewhere?"

"Exactly."

Kate was retying her ponytail. "Surely Mr. Benedict has thought of that," she said.

Reynie nodded, agreeing. "Most likely."

He stood, and began to pace. "But she might not even be in this country! Mr. Curtain might have taken her in a plane or boat to somewhere really remote."

Sticky moaned and put his head in his hands. "This whole thing gives me the creeps," he sighed. "It's awful, we don't know if Mr. Curtain took her to an island, or cave, or—or—I don't know."

Kate blew a puff of air threw her pursed lips. "Honestly, that Curtain idiot is going to suffer once I get ahold of him."

She cracked her knuckles menacingly, while Sticky anxiously straightened his collar, desperate for distraction.

"Sticky."

Reynie spoke form the opposite side of the room, having run out of room to pace.

"What?" Sticky was unnerved by Reynie's calmness.

"You said just now, that Mr. Curtain could be on an island."

Sticky nodded fearfully.

"But that would be too obvious. What's the opposite of island? The opposite of the ocean, in general?"

Sticky frowned and scratched his head. "Why, that would be a desert."

Reynie smiled.

"Wait!" said Sticky, finally understanding. "A desert! That's what you were talking about!"

"I'm not sure," cautioned Reynie, "but it's a guess."

"I think it's stupendous!" cried Kate, leaping to her feet. "Do we tell Mr. Benedict?"

Reynie looked embarrassed. "Well, what if I'm wrong?"

"What if you are?" Kate shook her head, smacking Sticky with her ponytail. "Whoops, sorry, Sticky. Reynie, so what if you're wrong? It's worth a try! Besides, it's more than I can think of."

Reynie laughed. "Okay, let's go."

They left the room, closing the door behind them.


	4. An Unexpected Visitor

**Here is the fourth installment...it took me a while to think up. Enjoy!**

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><p>Never had Constance been in such a thoroughly bad mood. Her pale blond hair practically crackled with electricity, her blue eyes were slits and her face had morphed into a permanent glower. Her fury at Mr. Curtain made her quiver with tangible rage. This was not very convenient, though, as she was attempting to tune in to Mr. Benedict, for he may have been trying to transmit a message to her.<p>

Constance kicked free of the moldy blanket which she had drawn over herself, and lay spread-eagled on the chilly white tile. _Come on, Mr. Benedict, _she thought. _Try harder! _But it was no use; her mind remained empty. She glared ferociously at the ceiling, and let out a growl of anger. It had been a long while since she had been this enraged, but this sort of situation called for it.

At that moment, the lock on the door clicked free, and the door itself inched open. It was Sharpe, as Constance knew it would be.

"Well, well, ducky."

He smirked down at her. "Having ourselves a nice little nap?"

Constance sat up, squinting at Sharpe. "I was, in fact. A nap which you so rudely interrupted."

Sharpe smiled. "I came to make certain you weren't in trouble. Or making trouble, for that matter."

Constance debated whether this was the moment to throttle Sharpe. Deciding against it, she stood up, and crossed her arms. She stared angrily at Sharpe until he glanced away.

"Well," he said, stretching contentedly, "as you seem to be in order, I'll be going now."

Constance bugged her eyes out at him. "Don't let the door hit you when you leave," she snipped. "Actually, _do _let the door hit you. Then we'd be making progress."

Sharpe looked annoyed, and fingered a pencil which he held nonchalantly in one hand. He seemed to be thinking about something. At last, he gave Constance a wave, and slipped from the room, taking care to lock the door. Constance flopped back down, more irritated than ever. She needed time to focus and marshal her thoughts, but the sudden voices in the hall outside her door, made it nearly impossible to concentrate.

"…But sir," someone was saying, "Mr. Curtain gave me permission to check in on her!"

"I have reason to doubt that, S.Q."

Constance started, shocked. What in the world, was S.Q. Pedalian doing there? She rose, and hovered close to the door, listening carefully.

"Sir, I'm telling the truth!"

Then Sharpe's voice: "Alright, go on. If I hear or see any funny business, though…Mr. Curtain will be the first to know."

"Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!"

Once again the lock clicked, and in tottered S.Q., looking exactly the way Constance remembered him; all gangly limbs and humongous feet. He swiftly closed the door behind him, and stood awkwardly before her, swinging his arms.

"What?" asked Constance dully. Perhaps she was too used to Mr. Curtain's supporters to be afraid of them anymore.

"Er," S.Q. began. "As you know, I—er support Mr. Benedict now, and, well, I don't exactly trust Mr. Curtain the way I used to."

Constance was mute.

"What I mean to say, is that I've come to help you."

Putting on her most disagreeable expression, Constance scrutinized S.Q. At last, she nodded. He was to be trusted.

"I have a question," she said. "Where are we?"

S.Q. frowned, and scratched his head. "Australia, I think."

Constances eyebrows shot up. "Australia? Are you kidding me?"

"Yes, it's a kind of desert out there. Mr. Curtain has a helicopter," said S.Q., somewhat nervously. He obviously wasn't used to the fact that he no longer worked for Mr. Curtain, and therefore was at perfect liberty to spill any of the ferocious man's personal secrets.

"Well, this is just peachy," growled Constance. She had the beginnings of a fierce headache, and the knowledge that she was half-way around the world from Mr. Benedict did not improve her state.

S.Q. winced apologetically. "A few friends are coming to help you," he commented. "They'll arrive sometime tomorrow."

Constance pursed her lips. "How d'you know?"

"Mr. Benedict told me when he asked for my assistance."

"He asked for your assistance?"

There was an awkward pause while Constance stared at S.Q. with frank disbelief. He nodded.

"Since Mr. Benedict knows I don't trust Mr. Curtain any longer, he asked if I'd like to help him, instead. I agreed, of course," S.Q. added hastily.

Constance rolled her eyes. "Yes, I think I've come to that conclusion. Otherwise you'd have to be a really life-like hallucination."

S.Q. looked confused. "Well, your friends—you know, Reynie, Kate and George—" Here Constance grinned—" are coming also."

Things were indeed starting to look up. At that moment, someone rapped sharply on the door.

"That's enough time," said Sharpe's voice, clearly irritated.

"Alright!" S.Q. called back. He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "I know Mr. Curtain is quite, er—how do you say…below the boots, but—"

Constance interrupted. "_Below the boots? _Don't you mean below the belt?"

"Er, yes," said S.Q., "that too."

"S.Q.!" barked Sharpe, now banging on the door. "Out! Now!"

"Just so you know," S.Q. whispered to Constance, "Mr. Curtain thinks I'm supporting him. But it's just an illusion, I promise."

Constance nodded, her fears temporarily at rest, and watched S.Q. stride to the door, tripping only once. He flung it open, and was met with an angry Sharpe.

"I believe I've made progess," said S.Q. somewhat enigmatically. Then, beaming in Sharpe's snarling face, he turned and strolled out of sight. Sharpe glanced at his silver watch, smirked and swiftly closed Constance's door. She listened to the sound of his footfalls dying away.

He had forgotten to lock the door.

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><p><strong>Review!<strong>


	5. Shadows, Pencils and Silver Gloves

**I apologize for the fact that this chapter jumps around a lot. This was needed to show the wide-spread effect Mr. Curtain has on the characters, and to help the plot. I worked it in the best I could, especially because I was extremely tired when I wrote this. Thanks for bearing with me, it means a lot! **

**-Spark Writer-**

**P.S. I do not own MBS...**

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><p>Mr. Curtain sat in his workroom, feeling smug. Smug, because everything was going according to plan. His Whisperer was highly responsive, his Ten Men were working with accuracy and punctuality, and the evasive Contraire child was securely shut up in a room, alone. He absently lifted his mug of tea to his lips, and paused, staring at something beyond the door. Over the rim of his glass, he saw a shadow flicker on the blank, white wall. He frowned. He had not summoned any of his Ten Men, and they knew better than to go sneaking around within a hundred yards of his delicate work space. Quietly setting his mug aside, Mr. Curtain leaned forward ever so slightly. The shadow was growing darker and taller as the person approached. He began to rise from his chair, anger boiling in his stomach. As he rose, the shadow did too, and yet the person who was casting it never came into sight.<p>

Mr. Curtain swore. It was himself he'd seen, a frightening reflection, but a reflection all the same. He sat down heavily, and the shadow melted with him. No one was in the hall, threatening him. All was well. Taking his belated sip of tea, he rose once more, and soundly closed his door, not wishing to see the mocking shadow of himself. Evidently, it would remind him of the impudent Benedict.

A second later, there came a knock at the door.

"This is?" Mr. Curtain barked.

"McCracken, sir."

Mr. Curtain nodded to himself. "Enter," he called.

McCracken came in, his expression mask-like. He stood opposite Mr. Curtain, looking as though something was irritating him, a nuisance, rather than a catastrophe.

"Well, McCracken?" Mr. Curtain prodded, feeling extremely impatient.

"Constance Contraire is nowhere to be found."

Mr. Curtain fell asleep.

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><p>On the opposite of the building and two floors down, Constance was hiding in an alcove beside a closed door. There seemed to be quite a lot of those in this building. She had no idea where she was, nor how to escape. She wondered wildly where S.Q. was, and he could help her. At least she was alone. That was better than being pursued by maniacal Ten Men.<p>

Peering around, Constance saw an empty span of corridor on either side. Stepping down from the raised alcove, she began to walk, her heart pounding a hurried tattoo in her chest. On and on she walked, meeting no one. It was too perfect, she thought. Too easy. As she neared the end of the hallway, something whizzed past her right ear, and stuck in the wall before her. It was a pencil, quivering on its tip. Spinning on the spot, Constance turned in time to see a cloud of deadly sharp pencils hurtling toward her. With a shriek, she leapt aside, and started running down the narrow corridor to her right. Too late, she saw the hulking figures of two Ten Men, each wearing silver gloves. With almost lazy movements, they seized her, and everything went silver and white and fiery red. For the first time, Constance was experiencing the consequences of Mr. Curtain's invention.

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><p>Reynie was clutching his head, feeling as though he had a severe migraine. His mind registered terror and great deal of physical pain. The problem was, it wasn't his own. Reynie had always been able to feel Constance's thoughts and emotions better than the others; it came with having an especially perceptive mind. Now, he knew she was in danger, and it was a torturous and out-of-control feeling. Mr. Benedict, across Reynie at his desk, was feeling similarly. His expression was calm, but his green eyes were troubled. He obviously felt solely responsible for Constance's current state.<p>

I have to do something," said Reynie, still clutching his head. "This is awful."

"We're leaving in a few hours," Kate reminded him, from where she sat in the corner, twiddling the hem of her shirt.

"But is that soon enough?" Reynie asked the room at large. "I mean, what if we're too late?"

Sticky shuddered. "You don't need to tell me," he sighed. "but Milligan is busy even as we speak, trying to rent a plane."

"I know," said Reynie, no less anxious.

After Constance had discovered that she was in an Australian desert, she had tried her best to transmit the information to Mr. Benedict. It had worked. Now, Milligan was indeed renting a plane to take a rescue party to Constance. It was their last hope.

Reynie winced as a particularly sharp pang of fear shot through him, and Sticky winced.

"That one I felt," he said nervously.

Kate looked around at them, unperturbed. "I don't feel anything," she said blithely.

Sticky was ruffled. "You wouldn't."

Seeing Kate's hurt look, he back-pedaled. "I mean, you have a really strong barrier to your mind. It helps you stay composed."

Kate chuckled at Sticky's old-fashioned use of the word, and forgave him on the spot.

"Well, Reynie?" she asked. "How is it now?"

Reynie removed his hands from his face, and gazed blearily at Kate. "She's out of danger. Immediate danger, that is."

Mr. Benedict nodded. "Well interpreted," he remarked. "I agree."

The room fell silent, and Reynie closed his eyes, enormously tired. His headache was gone, replaced with a sort of dread that settled in his stomach; a parasitic growth. He glanced at Mr. Benedict, and gave him a weak smile.

"Even very brave people become afraid sometimes," Mr. Benedict said quietly. "And you three—no, you four—are no exception."

Sticky smiled gratefully, and straightened his lapel resolutely. "Alright, everyone. Let's not keep Constance waiting."

Reynie looked around at Sticky in surprise. He had simply forgotten his friend's courage.

"Right, Sticky," he agreed. "Let's go find a map."

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><p><strong>Things are about to get really exciting, so hold onto your hats, people!<strong>


	6. A Slight Change in His Plans

**Well! This chapter is a nice opening to the coming battle between the characters. If you've read this far, you are a true MBS lover. Good for you!**

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><p>At the same time, Milligan and the society were flying their plane through the tail end of a hurricane, Constance was in McCracken's clutches, out of breath and defeated. The Ten Man wore an oily smile, and had neatly handcuffed Constance, taking care to pinch her wrists.<p>

"Just like old times, my dear," he remarked. "Rather nostalgic."

Constance curled her lip contemptuously. "Why are we just standing around?" she snapped.

McCracken chuckled. "Standing around? I think not. We are waiting for Mr. Curtain to decide his means of punishment, Miss Contraire."

Constance twitched irritably. In her private mind, she believed this was not so. Putting her real hunch to the test, she looked innocently up at McCracken. "We aren't waiting for him to _wake up,_ are we?"

McCracken narrowed his ice blue eyes. Constance knew she had struck a nerve.

Loosening his tie, McCracken gave her a dark, meaningful look. She was silent, her fears suddenly renewed. They stood in the hall outside Mr. Curtain's door for a few more minutes, a thin ray of sunlight streaming through a window high over Constance's head. All was quiet. Quiet, at least, until Constance heard an odd sound. A distant roar, combined with an unfamiliar "put-put." She frowned, and felt a bubble of hope blossom in her chest, one that she quickly tried to stifle.

Not seeming to have noticed, McCracken was humming and spinning a pencil round and round with his bulky fingers. The roar grew louder, building to an impressive crescendo. Only when it sounded as though a train was thundering over their heads, did McCracken look up and around with vague interest.

"That," he said almost gleefully, "must be Crawlings and Garrote."

Constance, who had no idea why the Ten Men had left, assumed that this was the helicopter S.Q. had spoken of. But did helicopters sound like that?

McCracken, suddenly in high spirits, lifted Constance and spun her around, in mock celebration. As she spun past the window, Constance saw a most extraordinary sight. A well-battered plane had landed several hundred yards away, people streaming from it. Beside the plane, were dozens of vehicles, people leaping out of them even before they rolled to a stop. From this distance, the individuals were only as big as toy dolls, but there were a great many of them, more than hundred.

All this Constance saw in a split second before McCracken set her none too gently back on the ground. Acting as though she had seen nothing, she kept a calm expression. McCracken smiled. "All is going according to plan."

Constance smiled back. "Oh, yes," she agreed. "Flawlessly."

The Ten Man wagged his finger at her. "Don't get too frisky, dear heart. It might be the last thing you ever do."

"Well," said Constance, "at least I'd die happy."

McCracken scowled.

Within minutes, Mr. Curtain called them into his study. Constance looked warily about her; there were no lasers, pencils or silver gloves in sight. Instead, there was something bulky hidden beneath a sheet. Mr. Curtain beckoned Constance to sit down, and told McCracken to wait outside the door until further notice.

Studying Constance, Mr. Curtain smiled calmly. "I see you made an escape," he smirked. "Only an insolent child such as yourself would have had the naiveté to believe you would be successful. Oh, no, you will always fail, of that, I am quite certain."

Constance bit her tongue, not keen on having another go with the terrifying sliver gloves.

"My, my, we are quiet," Mr. Curtain observed. "Surely you aren't offended by my views of your so-called "society."

She glowered at him, crossing her arms. Only her knowledge of the approaching rescuers kept her from retaliating. She hoped they were rescuers, at least. It wouldn't do to try to fight that many of Mr. Curtain's sympathizers.

He gave Constance a long, appraising look. Then, nodding to himself, he stood, and strode the hulking object in the center of the room, gripping the sheet excitedly.

"Prepare yourself to witness my improved Whisperer," he said, in a voice so delighted he almost sang.

Constance closed her eyes stubbornly. "No."

"No?" Mr. Curtain was incredulous.

"You heard me," She snapped in acid tones.

"Snakes and dogs!" he bellowed angrily. "You will do as you're told, Miss Contraire. Or the consequence will be qui—"

"Mr. Curtain, sir!" McCracken's voice sounded muffled through the door. "Sir, there's been a bit of trouble."

Mr. Curtain, breathing great heaving breaths, glanced at the door. "Trouble?" he asked, sounding as if he'd like to strangle McCracken.

"Yes. There seems to be a group of people here, under the impression that they can impede you from putting your brilliant plans into action."

Constance smiled to herself.

"A group of people, McCracken? What do you mean by 'a group?'?"

There was a pause.

"Crawlings estimates that there are just under two hundred of them."

"Snakes and dogs!" bellowed Mr. Curtain, slamming his fist onto his desk, scattering papers as he did so. "McCracken, tell Crawlings and Garrote to obstruct all doors and windows. Lock them, bar them, whatever it takes! Tell Sharpe to distribute briefcases among all the Ten Man except you and Mortis. Mortis and S. Q. will bring two-way radios to a spot where they will not be seen by anyone. If they see Benedict and his followers, they will radio you. You, McCracken, will seek out the children, Milligan, and any others with Benedict. I will take care of Benedict himself."

Looking round, Mr. Curtain seemed to regret that he had spilled his plans with Constance as witness. Narrowing his green eyes, he spoke to her. "You, my dear, will stay with me."

Constance said nothing. Her hatred for the man opposite her had rendered her temporarily speechless.

McCracken's footsteps died away, and Mr. Curtain rose and went to the round window set in the white wall. He twitched angrily, obviously unhappy with the spectacle before him. Little he knew that a battle was about to commence. A strange, fierce battle, one that would rage for an interminable amount of time, and would be filled with all manner of desperate, wild tactics.

No, he underestimated those people, and that would be his own worst mistake.

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><p><strong>How was this chapter? The juicy stuff will be coming in chapter seven, so keep reading! Thank you!<strong>

**-Spark Writer-**


	7. Caught in the Act

**Phew! That was a tough chapter to write, for a number of reasons. I'll start on the next one right away, but I can't guarantee it's going to be a happy chapter. It will be an exciting one, though. Read on!**

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><p>The heat of the sun was extraordinary. For someone like Reynie, it felt rather like being burned alive. It didn't help that the waves of heat were reflected in the expanse of sand that lay between the Society, and the square, white building in which Mr. Curtain resided. Beside Reynie, were Sticky and Kate, both mopping their brows.<p>

"If I'd have known it would be this warm, I'd have brought my bathing suit," Kate joked.'

Sticky moaned. Despite the warm temperature, his skin had taken on an ashen tint.

Reynie trudged onward, lifting his feet high with every step. The sand was an unfortunate inconvenience, and would make anyone who tried to run over it look like a fool. He swiveled his eyes to the left, and stared. A cluster of the weirdest looking people he'd ever laid eyes on was coming steadily towards them. "Who are those people?" he breathed.

Kate looked around, and grinned. "They're my old circus pals."

Sticky stopped dead. "Come again?"

"My pals from my day in the circus. I told them I was off to fight a wacky lunatic, and they offered to come and help. They're a loyal bunch."

Reynie started laughing, and shook his head at Kate's loveable audacity. "We're on our way to fight Mr. Curtain," he laughed, "and you invite a circus troupe?"

Sticky moaned again, louder this time. "We're seriously doomed," he groaned.

Kate refused to be pessimistic. "Oh, I wouldn't say that," she chided. "They are really quite resourceful."

Edging a group of government protesters, the circus troupe approached Kate, everyone waving and smiling.

"Well, if it isn't the Great Kate Weather Machine!" A broad shouldered man bellowed, genially.

"Tobias!" Kate called excitedly, then ran to hug the man. "You came! Oh, I'm so grateful!" she gushed, shaking Tobias's ham-like hand. "And, oh!" She had spotted a wispy woman with a shock of red hair. "Monique!"

The petite woman embraced Kate, and Kate was soon swallowed by her affectionate friends. Reynie and Sticky stood back a bit awkwardly, not sure how to introduce themselves. But Tobias had extricated himself from the group, and approached the boys. He introduced himself, and Reynie and Sticky did the same.

"Sticky, eh?" he asked, touching Sticky's arm. "You don't feel Sticky."

Reynie chuckled. "That's just what Kate said when she first met him."

Tobias beamed, then looked around. "You haven't seen Moocho, have you?"

"Oh, er, he's around here somewhere," said Reynie vaguely.

All around them was a strange assortment of people. There were bunches of government protesters, all infuriated by the government's negligence. There were a great deal of people whose loved ones had been recruited as helpers, and they were eager to be avenged. Then, there were Mr. Benedict's friends and supporters, a motley crew, but a fierce one. Moreover, the police and government officials had arrived too, furious that Mr. Curtain had escaped prison.

"Alright," Kate was saying. "We need to find Constance, and quickly. We'll look for her—" Kate gestured to herself, Sticky and Reynie, "and the rest of you will fight any men with briefcases. Make them look like the idiots they are," she added.

Tobias nodded stoutly. "Got it. Let's go," he commanded, and the group turned and headed toward the other side of the building.

Reynie, Sticky and Kate hastened along. They knew Milligan was busy distracting the Ten Men, but they felt anxious without his familiar presence. "Okay," said Kate, turning to Reynie, "what's the plan?"

Reynie squinted at the building, no Ten Men in sight. "It's best we stay together as long as we can. We have to find Constance. We need her, and she needs us."

Sticky twisted his fingers nervously. "Where d'you think she is?"

"Somewhere," said Reynie, "that Mr. Curtain thinks we'll never guess."

Kate frowned. "He always locks us up. Maybe he didn't this time, or Constance is in a really well-hidden room."

Racking his brain for ideas, Reynie began to trudge again, his friends quickly following suit. He was thinking about Mr. Curtain and his prisoners. How Mr. Curtain flaunted his superiority. How he needed to separate his prisoners from himself, mentally and physically. How—

"Of course!" Reynie shouted, much to Sticky's surprise. "Mr. Curtain has Constance with him!"

Sticky was aghast, but Kate was smiling. "Well, that'll make this easier," she grinned. "We'll be killing two birds with one stone."

Within minutes, the three young people had run, stumbled, and staggered up to the nondescript white building, in which Constance was held.

"How are we supposed to get in?" puffed Sticky, wiping his forehead laboriously.

Reynie turned to Kate beseechingly. She patted her battered bucket, beaming. "First, I think we should try all the doors. You know, to make sure there aren't any the Ten Men neglected to lock. If that doesn't work, we'll go from there."

The boys nodded, and they all began skirting the perimeter of the building. It was odd, there were no Ten Men to be seen, yet all the outside doors were firmly locked. Kate, jiggling a door handle wildly, stopped and looked up. Following her gaze, Reynie saw a window that was cracked open just slightly. Without wasting any valuable time, Kate tied a loop at one end of her rope, and swung it into the air. The loop caught on the window ledge and help fast. "Perfect," said Kate, checking to see if her bucket was properly fastened to her belt.

"Kate," said Reynie, suddenly acutely aware of the distance between the window and the ground.

"Hold that thought," Kate advised him, and began scrambling up her length of rope. It took her a mere thirteen seconds to reach the sill. There she peered down at Sticky and Reynie. "Stay here," she said. "I'm going inside so I can unlock the door you're standing in front of. I doubt either of you want to climb up here."

They didn't. Watching her golden ponytail disappear through the window, Reynie's stomach squeezed of its own accord, and he closed his eyes, praying no harm would come to Kate.

Without warning, there was a shout, and a sharp cry. "That doesn't sound good," whispered Sticky. Abandoning their post, the boys raced around the corner, and stared. A man lay prone on the sand, Crawlings standing over him, clutching a clipboard with a maddening air of smugness.

"Yikes!" exclaimed Sticky, quickly stepping back around the corner. "Get back, Reynie," he added. "You can't let the Ten Men see you."

Reynie obeyed, and walked back to the locked door. Except it was no longer locked. Kate stood in the doorway, grinning and ushering them in.

"Come on, you two. We've got work to do."

Sticky shook his head incredulously. "You're something else," he remarked. Kate beamed.

They quickly saw that their task was not going to be easy. Mr. Curtain could be anywhere, doing anything. It was a fearsome thought. Holding their breath, they sneaked along a seemingly endless corridor, stopping often to glance over their shoulders for pursuers. It was not long when they reached an echo-y stairwell. "This way," Kate muttered.

Glancing anxiously around, Reynie put one foot on the staircase, and stopped. Someone was watching him. An eyeball, glowing white in the dark beneath the stairs, was fixed on him.

"Run!" Reynie bellowing, spinning around and seizing Sticky by the arm, desperate to safe his friend. No sooner had they taken three steps that a group of eight Ten Men had launched a furious attack. Most of the Ten Men were unrecognizable; perhaps they were new?

Kate ducked as a pencil struck the wall in front of her, but smacked her nose on Sticky's knee as she did so. Swiftly wiping away a drop of blood, she threw a practiced punch at Sharpe, successfully knocking out several of the Ten Man's teeth. He bellowed with rage, and grabbed Kate's ponytail, yanking her backward. She yelped and kicked out her legs, knocking the toupee off a hunch-shouldered Ten Man.

Reynie, meanwhile, was being pummeled by a Ten Man with bolt-like knuckles, each blow stinging painfully. "No!" he shouted, writhing free of his attacker's grip. The man gave up on Reynie, and started in on Sticky, wrenching the young man's arm brutally. Reynie drew back his leg to kick the Ten Man, only to have it stuck sharply with a pencil.

Biting his tongue to hold back the roar of pain that threatened to escape, Reynie looked desperately at Kate. She was fighting admirably, that was obvious, but she was losing. Sharpe had pulled his handkerchief from his front pocket, and pressed it to Kate's nose. She slumped to the floor, unconscious. Fighting the urge to cry out in panic, Reynie managed to extricate Sticky from the hulking Ten Man's fierce grip, and they were running, running as fast as they could.

"We left Kate!" Reynie shouted as they sprinted along. "We have to go back!"

"No!" said Sticky. "I realize this is an awful predicament, but she wouldn't want us to risk it. The Ten Men just want her detained, not dead!"

"I hope you're right," panted Reynie.

This was a very bad omen.

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><p><strong>Thank you ever so much for reading! Lol, that was formal. :)<strong>


	8. The Sacrifice of SQ Pedalian

**Fair Warning: This is a sad chapter!**

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><p>To any outsider, the scene at the building Mr. Curtain was currently monopolizing was certainly a terrifying one. A shapeless mob had congregated in front of the building, people shouting and threatening loudly. There was an angry bunch of business-suit clad men, each clutching a scuffed briefcase, and glowering at one another. There was a humongous man with oiled black hair, grappling with a slew of briefcase holding men, looked as if he'd only been temporarily inconvenienced. Then, and this was the strangest of all, there were two men crouched behind a sand dune, portable radios in their hands. One of the men appeared to be rather gangly, while the other was stocky and frowning. It seemed their day was not going as planned.<p>

"McCracken, sir." The stocky man spoke into his radio. "I mean it, I don't see Benedict."

"This is absurd!" a crackly voice issued from the radio. "Really, Mortis! Are you insinuating that Benedict isn't here? Use your brain, old fellow. Or do you not have one?"

Stung, Mortis glared at his radio. "Of course I have a brain, McCracken!"

"That's _sir_ to you."

Mortis rolled his eyes, and took another look around the sand dune. He could not make out Mr. Curtain's twin. The man crouched beside him squinted as the breeze picked up loose grains of sand, and tossed them mercilessly. "Mortis, sir, I don't see him either."

"Quiet!" barked Mortis. "I am trying to concentrate, S.Q.!"

S.Q. ignored this, and shifted so that his long legs were more comfortable. He wished he had brought something other than his radio and a flask of water. He was dreadfully hungry. Sighing, he peered at the depressing scene before the building. There were many injured people, sitting on the sand, moaning and groaning, and a few people who lay on their backs, shocked senseless by Mr. Curtain's silver gloves. It was really quite awful.

S.Q. wanted to help, he wanted to do _something _right. It seemed he had made too many mistakes. Even so, he would be a good person; he had always been one. But he had been an injured person, too. His radio crackled, and McCracken's voice came on. He sounded gleeful.

"Excuse me for a moment," he said. "I believe I have just spotted dear old Milligan."

The radio crackled again, and went dead. S.Q. clutched his head, frightened for Milligan. He so respected Milligan for being a true father, unlike Mr. Curtain had been to S.Q. himself. And if Milligan was in trouble, he was going to do something about it.

"Bathroom," he muttered to Mortis, and sprinted away.

Using his key, he deftly unlocked the back door, and entered the still, quiet building; a sharp contrast to the chaos outside. He began loping along the hall, steeling himself for whatever punishment lay in store. At the sound of running footsteps, S.Q. turned and saw Reynie, Sticky and Constance running toward him. Constance bore signs of a struggle; he hair stuck out wildly, and her clothes were mussed, and the boys had a few bad bruises. But overall, they looked alright.

"We got her out," Reynie breathed, and Constance beamed. Never had she been so glad to see her friends.

"But," gasped Sticky, "Kate's been knocked out. She's in Mr. Curtain's study. Will you try to help her?"

S.Q. nodded. "Sure thing. You all get away from here while you can. I'll go and talk to him."

No one needed to ask who "him" was.

Swinging round, S.Q. walked on, and arrived at Mr. Curtain's door a minute later. He heard a lot of angry shouting.

"You insolent person!" Mr. Curtain was screeching. "You dare to sabotage my plans _again!" _

"It's not called 'sabotaging' if you attack and capture one of my best friends!"

S.Q. listened closely, impressed that Kate sounded more like the adult she was becoming than ever before.

"Hold your nasty little tongue, Miss Wetherall!" Mr. Curtain sounded rather demented in S.Q.'s opinion. "I will not tolerate your insufferable attitude, _do you understand?_ You have made your decisions and I have made mine."

There was a thud as Kate rammed her body against the door, desperate for escape. Without worrying what Mr. Curtain would say, S.Q. blithely opened the door, and Kate slipped under his arm, and away.

"Snakes and dogs!" Mr. Curtain roared, glaring at Kate's retreating figure. "S.Q., you blithering idiot! Do you have a brain in that senseless head of yours?"

Ignoring this, S.Q. stepped bravely into the study, and looked Mr. Curtain in the eye. "Sir, I don't mean to be rude, but—"

"You've already done so," snapped Mr. Curtain, his hand trembling with rage. "Get back to your post."

Then, S.Q. did something very strange, something he hadn't yet had the guts to do. He put his tongue to the roof of his mouth, formed a little "o" with his lips, and said: "No."

Mr. Curtain stiffened. "Excuse me?"

"No," repeated S.Q. "I won't go back to my post. I—I don't believe what you're doing is right, Mr. Curtain. I wish I could trust you, but I just can't. Maybe someday it'll be different. A world without fear would be nice, wouldn't it, sir?"

Mr. Curtain's eyes were slits. He was visibly quivering with fury. S.Q. plowed on.

"So, please, Mr. Curtain, for all those people out there…the ones who helped you, and the ones who fought you…and even for yourself—do the right thing. Even if it means being afraid…losing control. I'll help you."

"Help me?" Mr. Curtain strode jerkily to his whisperer, and went to stand behind it. "No, no one need help me do _anything. _Now, step aside, S.Q."

But S.Q. was staring at Mr. Curtain with a look of deepest despair. "You don't know how," he said very quietly. "You don't know how to do the right thing."

"Move!" Mr. Curtain barked. S.Q. didn't. So with a swift movement, Mr. Curtain pulled a lever on the Whisperer, and gave the gangly, stricken looking man opposite him a hideous glare.

"I warned you," was all he said.

As it happened, Constance was running as fast as she could, trying to find Mr. Benedict. She kicked up great clouds of sand, but she didn't care. Finding Mr. Benedict was priority. She ducked as a briefcase went hurtling over her head. Garrote, having lost his temper, was flinging his belongings at anyone within reach. The police officers had been either stuck with pencils, shocked silly, or bludgeoned with Crawlings' clipboard. So far none of the Ten Men had had to resort to using their laser pointers. Spotting Sticky, Constance went racing over, clutching a stich in her side.

Sticky looked relieved at her arrival. "There you are," he gasped, mopping his brow. "Had a nasty run-in with McCracken just now. Luckily, Milligan distracted him.

Constance nodded, mute. She was about to question Sticky of Mr. Benedict's whereabouts, when Kate came sprinting up to them. "You're out!" cried Sticky. "Thank goodness!"

Kate was unusually grim. "S.Q.'s stuck in there with Mr. Curtain. Who knows what'll happen to the poor fellow."

Constance eyed the people around them. Hopefully Reynie hadn't been hurt. It had been a while since she had seen him. Beside their airplane, Moocho was pummeling Sharpe, and expertly dodging the Ten Man's attempts at whipping him with his neck-tie. "Hold still!" Sharpe bellowed. Moocho's response was to fling the Ten Man bodily through the air. Sharpe landed in a graceless heap twenty feet away, snarling audibly.

Constance grinned, and Kate called, "Good one, Moocho!"

He gave them a fleeting wave.

Constance opened her mouth to ask Kate a question, then stopped. She couldn't remember what her question was. She couldn't even remember why they were all standing there, for that matter. Her mind was slipping into a delirious haze, all thought extinguished from it. She looked at the people standing beside her, unable to identify them. They, too, looked stricken and shocked.

_I can't let this happen, _thought Constance. _If I give in, awful things will happen. _Even as she thought this, her legs folded beneath her, and she landed heavily in the sand, confused. It was rather like talking in ones sleep. When you woke up, you'd realize with embarrisment, that what you were saying or dreaming about, made no sense, though it had moments before. It was as if they had all slipped into a different plane of reality. Constance allowed herself to float in the feeling of well-being that accompanied her loss of memory. It was pleasant, but somehow wrong.

All of a sudden, a man's face swam before Constance's eyes, a pleasing image of a kindly man with bright green eyes. "Constance," he said gently. "Don't forget."

At the word 'forget,' Constance sat up, startled. This man was not an image, he was actually standing there, solid and real. He was smiling at her. "You've been so brave. Remember that. Don't let Ledroptha take that from you. We are not pushing back; we are simply standing our ground. Fight Constance. It's time."

Constance squeezed her eyes shut, and felt the waves of confusion wash over her. She heard others, friend or foe she did not know, crying out and screaming in fear. Blocking this out, Constance did what she did best; she became stubborn. Unbendingly, adamantly stubborn. That was all it took. Bits and pieces came rushing back to her like a half remembered voice, and rising to her feet, Constance looked out over the people who were turning in circles, clutching each other as though if they let go, they would fly of the earth.

She took a deep breath, and yelled: "He's trying to brainsweep you!"

Sticky, moaning and holding his head, looked up at Constance wonderingly. He blinked.

"Mr. Curtain is trying to brainsweep us, all of us! Fight it! Look at your friends! Don't let him overtake you!"

Constance kept up her rallying cries until her throat went dry, and then Reynie (where had he come from?) began to yell, too. "It's alright, everyone! Hold on! Don't give in to it!"

Mr. Benedict squeezed Constance's shoulder. "It's almost over, dear girl," he said.

Within the minute, the awful sweeping sensation had lifted, and Constance found herself feeling quite alright, though her limbs were a bit shaky. She looked around, and saw Milligan running over, his face a mask of anxiety. With a cry of relief, he embraced Kate, while Sticky clapped Reynie on the back. "You were amazing!" he crowed. "Both of you!" Reynie and Constance beamed.

Slowly, everyone was standing shakily, and rubbing their heads. Most had recovered, but a few people simply stared blankly around. Constance knew their damage was permanent. Turning to Milligan, she asked, "Have you seen S.Q.?"

Milligan closed his eyes, looking wearier than ever. "S.Q. was confronting , when he turned his brainsweeper on full-blast. Therefore, it was S.Q. who got the strongest amount."

Mr. Benedict sighed heavily. "How is he?"

Milligan shook his head for a long time, his eyes dark with sorrow, and Constance knew.

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><p><strong>Thank you for reading!<strong>


	9. Worth Fighting For

**Okay, so this took me longer than I expected. It's somewhat more raw than the previous chapters, but I'm pleased with it, over-all. I don't think this will be the final chapter, so keep that in mind when you are reading. As always, I so appreciate your thoughts. Thank you!**

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><p>Constance watched the scene as if suspended in reality. Mr. Curtain was striding across the sand, his eyes full of hatred, and Mr. Benedict was strolling in from the opposite direction, his expression one of calm tenacity. The surrounding people has ceased fighting, and stood in great huddles, watching and waiting.<p>

"Ledroptha," said Mr. Benedict quietly. "Aren't you tired?"

Mr. Curtain stopped, his lumpy nose, distorted in the burning sun. "You dare to speak to me? To look me in the eye? You betrayed me, Benedict. We may be twins, but we are not brothers."

Constance eyed Mr. Curtain, sensing the man's all-encompassing fury. She fought the urge to give Mr. Curtain a good kick in the shins, and something else besides, but knew this was not the time. Not at all.

"Ledroptha," Mr. Benedict said again, "how did it come to be like this? Here we are, fighting a war. You and your Ten Men have become casualties of something very big, yet hard to realize."

Mr. Curtain's eyes flickered. "What is that, Benedict?" he spat.

"Fear."

"Excuse me? Fear does not exist in my world. I wish I could say the same for you."

Mr. Benedict smiled. "Thank you for those kind words, Ledroptha. I daresay they will be quite useful, in time."

Behind Mr. Curtain, McCracken fondled his handkerchief, and Sharpe loosened his navy tie. This was not lost on Mr. Benedict, who said kindly to Sharpe, "Yes, it's quite warm, isn't it?"

"Enough!" bellowed Mr. Curtain. "I will not tolerate your mindless chatter!"

Mr. Benedict looked upon his brother sadly. "I think not, Ledroptha. These are manners."

Constance beamed, and felt a bubble of hope burst into existence in her chest. She knew, even at fourteen, that the remedy to fear was love, and Mr. Benedict was that to Mr. Curtain. Around Constance, her friends stood tall and unflinchingly. Perhaps they were beyond fear. Perhaps they realized, like Constance, that everyone was a mix of light and dark, and what really made them who were, was which emotion they acted on.

"You are in denial, Benedict! You are as blind as your followers! You will always fail, do you not see that? I cannot stand people who live in denial!"

"Yet you live in denial every day," sighed Mr. Benedict, his spectacles glinting benignly in the sun. "And I speak for my friends as well as myself when I say; I think we would all rather live in denial, than live without integrity."

"We would!" shouted Number Two, then winced when Mortis glared at her.

Mr. Benedict smiled in her direction, then turned back to the irate Mr. Curtain. "What," he began, "is there left for you to fight for?"

"Everything," said Mr. Curtain coldly.

The people watching this exchange held their breath, their eyes darting from one man to the other like bizarre dolls. Constance shivered involuntarily, waves of emotion sweeping over her. After a long, full moment, Mr. Benedict nodded—more to himself that anyone, and turned away from his brother. He stood for a second, then approached the Society, his eyes sad but unperturbed. Constance looked around at Mr. Curtain, a man so tired that it seemed he might break. Indeed, there was such an expression of pure anguish on his face, that Constance nearly felt sorry for him. Nearly.

It was McCracken who left. With an utterly unapologetic look, he spun on his well-polished heel, and marched over to a hastily parked vehicle, one like Constance had been driven in after her capture. He swept his cold eyes over the other Ten Men, all of whom stared back at him, undecided. "Well?" He cast Crawlings an appraising glance. "Anyone care to depart this abysmal scene?"

Garrotte swallowed. Sharpe and Crawlings became suddenly quite interested in their fingernails. "Very well," said McCracken. And wrenching the door open, he disappeared into the car.

Constance turned to Mr. Benedict, searching his face for an answer. "Why?"

Mr. Benedict sighed and ran a hand through his snowy hair. "I believe McCracken cannot stand weakness—even when coming from his superior. Perhaps if he had stayed and showed any sympathy, he would have been riddled with self-loathing. McCracken believes weakness is a fatal flaw."

Reynie looked troubled at this, but chose not to speak. He and Sticky moved in closer on either side of Kate, unconsciously protecting her. And all the while, Mr. Curtain stood alone. He was bent over slightly, as though about to be sick. His mouth was twisted into an awful contortion; he looked like he'd just been told that his dearest friend had died. Perhaps it had. His recovered sense of control had no doubt been an immense comfort to him, but now the walls had come crashing down.

Clearing his throat, a police officer that had not been stunned, smacked or lasered, approached Mr. Curtain, bearing a pair of handcuffs that were the same shade of silver as Mr. Curtain's gloves. "It's done," said the police officer to Mr. Curtain, though not unkindly. "The sooner you realize that, the better."

The handcuffs went on, and the police officers converged on Mr. Curtain, directing him into a helicopter of their own.

"I don't believe it," said Sticky. "It's over."

Mr. Benedict nodded, and actually managed a smile. "For now."

No one asked what he meant by that prophetic comment, nor did they want to. They all needed time to breathe, and to recover. That would take time.

The group of weary fighters began to stir; people embraced each other, hugging strangers and hugging friends. Kate's pals came tramping over, full of chatter. They shook Mr. Benedict's hand, smiling and talking all the while. Constance accepted a hearty pat from Tobias (so forceful that her feet sank into the sand) and thanked them all over and over.

There were others there; people whom she didn't know, but would be forever grateful for. As the police helicopter lifted into the air, Constance watched it, and saw Mr. Curtain staring at her. She didn't smile or scowl. She watched him intently, until his face became a shapeless smudge, too distant to make out.

He was gone.

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><p><strong>Please review this chapter! Thanks a million!<strong>


	10. Epilogue

**Wow! You have finally reached the end of this story. Thank you so much for sticking with it, and giving me advice. You're awesome!**

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><p>Constance squeezed past Reynie and Kate and went to sit on her cozily unmade bed. She allowed herself a moment to admire her room, with all its quirks and charm, then looked over at her friends.<p>

"Why are you all just standing around? Sit down!"

Reynie laughed sheepishly, and he and Sticky collapsed gratefully into the armchairs by the window. Kate perched on the end of Constance's bed, all smiles. It seemed that everyone was waiting for Constance to speak; it was her moment. Looking around at her friends with immense affection, Constance began.

"You know, sometimes it is easy to forget what matters. When those idiotic Ten Men captured me, I lost sight that for a while. But then, as I was fighting Mr. Curtain, I realized something very important." She paused for emphasis. "My nose was bleeding."

She shrieked as Kate whacked her with a pillow. "Alright, alright, I was kidding! Anyway, I realized that I have something Mr. Curtain doesn't."

"What?" asked Sticky, leaning forward in his chair.

"I have Kate's fearlessness. I have Sticky's brains. I have Reynie's acuity."

Kate leaned over to Sticky. "Good gravy, what does acuity mean?"

"It means he has insight and perception."

"Oh," said Kate, grinning. She winked at Reynie. "Fitting!"

Reynie was smiling at Constance, his head tilted slightly to the side. "And we have your unerring stubbornness."

"Absolute," Sticky said quickly in response to Kate's questioning look. "Unerring means "absolute."

Kate patted Constance's arm. "Thanks, Connie girl."

Constance slyly picked up the pillow and held it aloft.

"Oh, no you don't!" shouted Kate. She seized the pillow from Constance, and set it gently on the floor. "Every time anyone compliments you, you try to distract them. It's not going to work this time."

"Kate's right," said Reynie. "It's your turn to listen, Constance."

Constance groaned and leaned back, staring resignedly at the ceiling. "Go on, then."

And they did.

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><p>In his study, Mr. Benedict was staring absently out his window. He gazed over Stonetown bay, though not really seeing it, as his thoughts remained on S.Q. S.Q. was beyond help. He had been in front of the Whisperer at the time Mr. Curtain had switched it on full-blast. Therefore, S.Q. had been brain swept the most severely of anyone. It wasn't fair, nor was it fixable. Mr. Benedict sighed heavily, and leaned his forehead against the cool panes. He closed his eyes, seeing Constance's face in his mind. Now that she was safe, he reflected that it had been ridiculous to think that she wouldn't escape. She was gifted, and much more than that.<p>

He smiled to himself, and turned to take a sip of his tea. Just as he lifted his mug, the door burst open, and Number Two appeared, Rhonda hovering behind her. "Listen to this!" Number Two shouted, gesticulating a newspaper wildly.

"World renowned scientist Ledroptha Curtain arrested for illegal prison escape. 'We got there as soon as we could,' says Officer Blanton. 'I took charge of the situation, and no one was harmed.'"

Number Two glared at the paper, then at Mr. Benedict. "They neglected to mention that he attacked and kidnapped a girl!"

Mr. Benedict's response was to pull a pear from his pocket and hand it to Number Two. She crunched it, gratefully. "I do apologize," she sighed. "I just can't stand lies and injustice!"

Rhonda patted Number Two's arm. "Even lies have their moment of truth," she reminded them.

Mr. Benedict nodded, smiling and glanced out the window once more. The sun, a fiery sphere, was sinking toward to horizon. It cast a magical glow over the city. As the two women turned to leave, he stopped them. "Number Two, would you mind if I looked at the article for a moment?"

She handed the paper to him, and was gone. Mr. Benedict looked at the newspaper, chuckled, then chortled. He strolled to the window, raised it and leaned out, admiring the world below. Then, he lifted the paper, and tossed it toward the sky. It fluttered and pitched, an ink-printed bird against a sun warmed sky.

Mr. Benedict gazed at it for a moment, then remembered his tea. As he ducked back inside, he spotted a small child gazing up at the airborne paper with wonder. She giggled and hopped, trying to seize the paper before it drifted away. He regarded the child fondly. Perhaps she, too, was gifted.

Perhaps.

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><p><strong>Now, let the lights go down, the music end, and the curtains fall forever on the Adventures of Constance Contraire!<strong>

**The End...**


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